I Do Love Nothing in the World So Well as You
by stickthekettleon
Summary: Morning's always the very worst time of day. Sirius is back in the morning, and of course, Remus has nowhere to go, nothing to do. He's at a loose end that is threatening to break and send him spiralling into freefall. Slash .


I do love nothing in the world so well as you

They never really talk anymore. When they do talk it's stilted, phatic; _could you pass me the paper, please?_ and _cold weather we've been having_. Remus hates it. He stays in the house as much as he can, tidying, organising or weeding in their garden. Sirius hates it. He's out as often as possible, either getting drunk in a pub or a bar somewhere in Muggle London or walking aimlessly until five, six in the morning. Remus doesn't ask what he's been doing and Sirius doesn't ask Remus, either, only complains when one of Remus's tidying spells has got out of hand and he's moved all the clothes in the drawers around or all of his sheet music's been filed in accordance with the bizarre categories that Remus has thought of on the spot: _Good Day Sunshine _is in the same folder as _Bridge Over Troubled Water _and _Get It On_, even though Sirius can't see the link between their genre or tempo or meaning.

Morning's always the very worst time of day. Sirius is back in the morning, and of course, Remus has nowhere to go, nothing to do. He's at a loose end that is threatening to break and send him spiralling into freefall. Remus wakes first and slaves at the morning routine he's followed for the past God knows how many years: bath, teeth, dressed, tea, breakfast, paper. In that order. Sirius stirs shortly after and they always seem to meet at the breakfast table, exchanging nothing more than a few clipped utterances over the cereal or toast or occasional eggs that Remus makes.

Both of them wish it wasn't like this - tense, awkward, bordering on angry - but neither of them know what to do about it. Neither of them can remember what trust feels like and instead their relationship is built on suspicion and pain and hurt and that's the very heart of the matter. On the face of it, in public, with the Order, they're the friends that everyone knows and expects them to be, they talk, they smile, it's easy, and at times like that Sirius can almost imagine them reverting back to how they used to be, instead of these poor caricatures of themselves.

"I love you," Remus says unexpectedly one afternoon just as Sirius is heading out of the door, his leather jacket half on. He turns and looks at Remus, who hasn't moved, who hasn't shifted his gaze as he so often does, who is staring at Sirius with the eyes that have been dull for a very long time. He is waiting, and Sirius frowns slightly, not knowing quite what to say or do.

"Why did you organise my sheet music?" he manages eventually, and Remus looks almost as if he was expecting a reply like that.

"It was a mess," Remus said simply. "It's all in categories now, you'll be able to find everything easily."

Sirius's frown deepened and he walked into the living room, picking up the folders, expecting Remus to follow, which he does. "These...these categories don't make any _sense_, Remus," he said, sounding on the verge of anger. "I don't understand them, they're not chronological, alphabetical, they're not organised by genre, they're...not right."

Remus looked away, out of the window. "I'm not right," he replied, turning his empty gaze back to Sirius. "We're not right."

Sirius made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat and let the folders fall from his hand back onto the table as he turned and disapparated on the spot.

~*~

"They're our songs," Remus murmured, again unexpectedly, over breakfast the next day.

"What?" Sirius snapped, his hand resting on his forehead and applying no small amount of pressure.

Remus got up and went into the living room at the front of the cottage, coming back with the folders that he'd sorted Sirius's music into. He picked up a quill that had been lying around when he'd written a letter to James and dipped it in the pot of ink that was next to it. Glancing nervously at Sirius, who was watching him intently, Remus neatly wrote on the front of one of the folders _Songs You Used to Sing to Me_. The next folder is picked up and on that is written_ Your Good Mood Songs_. The next is labelled _Your Bad Mood Songs_, then _Your Nothing Mood Songs_, then _Songs I Used to Play _and after that _Songs We'd Play Together_.

"Do you understand now?" Remus murmured, sipping his tea, not looking at Sirius.

"Yes," Sirius replied, reaching across the table and nearly, nearly touching Remus's hand, seeming to change his mind at the last minute and diverting its path to pick up another slice of toast. Looking up at Sirius, his eyes sorrowful, Remus put his cup down heavily on the table, sloshing tea everywhere and hurrying out into the garden.

Sirius didn't follow him.


End file.
